A Poisoned Rose
by She's a Star
Summary: Drusilla battles the ceaseless whispers of her past.


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A Poisoned Rose

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by She's a Star

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Disclaimer: BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon.

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Author's Note: I wrote this as a challenge fic for the by_the_pen Livejournal community, and then decided to post it, as I really haven't posted anything in awhile. I really adore Drusilla, and hope I got her character remotely right. I envisioned this taking place sometime during early season two, but I suppose it could be any time that Spike and Drusilla were together. Aaand . . . I'll stop rambling now. Promise. :-)

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That's all she knows, it's a poisoned rose

It's all she wants when she glides into the night

But all she needs is to open up her eyes

And she knows it's here, it echoes in her mind.

~ 'Empty Stairs' by Saybia

Sin is a pretty word, she thinks. Sharp, and poised, and poisoned. Pricked fingertips on spindles and then a thousand years, the princess sleeps, but she was no princess, not then.

Things have changed now - they always do; the sky tends to favour different shades of midnight - but still she knows somewhere the angel sleeps inside of her, and if the demon was ripped away, it would hurt so very badly.

She whimpers, a little, and Spike mumbles without waking. His arm is wrapped around her waist, and she knows she shan't escape, because she is fragile, and delicate. But he won't ever harm her. Not her Spike. He loves her so much, so very much, and tells her all these things. She is more exquisite than darkness, than death or decay. Charming little words, all of them, and she giggles sometimes. And then they'll dance, everything blurring as it swirls around her, and the millions of tiny pleas and screams that are always echoing through her head come together. A symphony.

Yes, she loves her Spike very much.

But she knows that if the angel should ever fight its way outside, even he couldn't protect her then. For it's a vicious beast - all purity and white roses and rosary beads.

_"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . ."_

_No, no, no!_ she screams, and fights, flailing, and another war erupts inside her mind. This isn't very uncommon, as the voices always seem to disagree (such naughty children), but this one scares her. This one is soft and careful and she remembers warm fingers and brown eyes and blood spilt by the hands of dark angels.

_"Now, Dru, my darling, remember these words - go on, say it as I do. 'Blessed art thou . . .'"_

Blessed, blessed, blessed. Foul and unsettling; thousands of tiny bugs run through her skin. She shan't listen. She shan't listen.

Oh, she hates it, hates the good, hates the pure, hates that she used to make signs of crosses - her skin burns; cracks and sizzles, nasty little hissing noises - and once she'd closed her eyes in churches and craved the air like blood, thinking angels watched her there, with gossamer wings, little pieces of heaven, oh she didn't want heaven, and it scared her so very badly, _oh, Spike, Spike . . ."Holy Mary, mother of God" . . . make it stop, make it go away._

The voices are screaming, in choruses, shrieks and cries and her head rings and she feels as though she might die and still the words come, still the words come, and she knows she shan't win, but they can't be endured, oh, if only she'd always been wicked.

Then the ghosts and angels wouldn't haunt her so.

"Spike," she whispers, desperately, and claws at his chest.

He shifts, but does not open his eyes, and perhaps he can see it, perhaps he can see what she used to be leaking through her, spilling through her skin and she can't stop it, and he should hate her, oh, they all should, for she was chaste and haloed and oh, how she yearns to be purely damned--

"What is it, baby?" His eyes open, lazily, and he does not recoil. Instead, he pulls her closer, and she is chained, forever and ever, and she knows he shall protect her.

"The whispers," she returns timidly, as quietly as she can because she doesn't know whatever might happen if they heard her. "I don't understand it, Spike. They're softest, and yet they drown out all the rest."

"Shhhh," he instructs, and caresses her face with cold fingers. "It's all right, luv. It's just a nightmare. Just go to sleep."

She knows that he's wrong but doesn't correct him, for she is so much older and wiser - he is just a child, and he shan't ever understand, not truly.

She must fight her own angels.

But she can't, she knows; she is too weak, and cannot escape what's come to pass. And so she closes her eyes, and surrenders to endless whispers.

_Pray for us sinners._


End file.
